


When I am king, you will be first against the wall

by houseofthestars



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, Crimson Flower, Established Relationship, Fire Emblem: Three Houses Black Eagles Route Spoilers, Fire Emblem: Three Houses Golden Deer Route Spoilers, Minor Character Death, Multi, Nonbinary My Unit | Byleth, Other, Post-Black Eagles Route (Fire Emblem: Three Houses), Trans Female Character, Trans Ferdinand von Aegir, character and pairing tags to be updated, crimson flower claude, edelgard abolishes ‘von’ along with the nobility, lets see how spicy i feel, other background pairings, rating to be potentially updated
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-26
Updated: 2020-01-03
Packaged: 2021-02-25 20:42:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,777
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21971560
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/houseofthestars/pseuds/houseofthestars
Summary: Defeated in Derdriu but spared his life, Claude von Riegan has no choice but to return to Almyra with no Alliance, no Dukedom and no chance of winning. Worst still, he owes the Empire a debt.And it’s not too long before they come to collect, which finds him a reluctant member of the Ministry of the Imperial Household. But it turns out whatever doesn’t kill you makes you stronger.
Relationships: Ferdinand von Aegir/Hubert von Vestra, Hilda Valentine Goneril & Claude von Riegan
Comments: 7
Kudos: 49





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A few things of note:
> 
> Ferdinand is a recently-out trans woman in this fic and decides to change her name (thank you Tama for the excellent name suggestion also).  
> In the process of abolishing the nobility Edelgard has also abolished the nobiliary particle ‘von’ so many of the nobles who previously used it will have changed their surname in some way, whether it be by just removing the ‘von’, taking on part of their spouse’s name, or something completely different.
> 
> Thank you to my husband, Tama and Harry for encouraging me to write this!

Everything started to fall apart the moment Teach came back. And it ends in Derdriu, by their hand.

They only strike his wyvern but that almost hurts more. Ester shrieks when the arrows pierce her belly, her wings faltering so that the pair of them swoop downwards in a way that makes Claude’s stomach pitch. She lands awkwardly, almost tipping him out of the saddle, and he watches her head drop, her breath coming ragged. Her blood pools on the patterned flagstones of the quay. Ester had been a gift, along with the flight gear; a white-winged act of faith. And now she lies fraught on the stone.  _ At least Nader isn’t here to see the state of her, _ Claude thinks, and then remembers why Nader had to withdraw in the first place. 

Teach has another arrow drawn and it’s pointing right at Claude this time. Their face is calm, the way it’s always calm, as if life and death is merely a difference of movement of the heart. Their posture is straight, their eyes are fixed right on his own. They never look away. They’re asking a question.

“Enough,” he says, as if the state of him and Ester didn’t say it already. “You’ve bested me. If I die here, the Alliance becomes part of the Empire.”

“Do you yield, then? You’ve never known when to give up.” Edelgard’s voice calls as she catches up to Byleth, her boots echoing as they clip across the stone. Aymr is still in her hands, glowing the same way Failnaught does in his own. 

Oh, right. He carefully moves his arms, eyes still locked with Teach’s. His left drops the reins, his right stretches out Failnaught away from him, letting it fall with a clatter away from him. As he lets go the fire infusing its uncanny, unknowable architecture fades and dies. 

“Well, I can’t just surrender so easily. I’m responsible for the others,” he says. Out of the corner of his eye he can see Hilda sat on the Derdriu cobblestones surrounded by Imperial lances, clutching a wound in her thigh. He doesn’t look at Lysithea and Lorenz, a few paces behind Edelgard, but tries a tired grin at the emperor that he doesn’t feel an inch of.

Derdriu has fallen, the Alliance is over. He has no army, no generals, no weapon. It’s as if someone has turned back the hands of time and he is back to half his age and half his size, with nothing but his words to fight with.

“If you’re as smart as you seem, I bet you’ve figured out why I was able to summon Almyran reinforcements,” he says, and finally there’s the truth of it, all spilled out onto the quay. “Wouldn’t it be better to let me go and have me in your debt?”

A long pause. Teach still has their bow levelled at his head, their eyes are still boring into his own but something in their shoulders… shifts. Their weight transfers imperceptibly from one foot to the other, and if Claude’s heart wasn’t thudding in his chest he thinks he would hear their breath slowly sighing out of them.

_ Please,  _ Claude thinks, _ I have so much left to do.  _ The thought surprises him as it slips through his mind because everything he has done so far, everything he has poured blood sweat and tears into, has led him to this, hands above his head on an injured wyvern. And yet, he thinks:  _ Please. _

And Teach lowers their bow.

Edelgard doesn’t argue, doesn’t even try to. She just follows Teach’s lead, lowering Aymr, and Claude can’t help but file that away even as the adrenaline sinks out of his body and leaves his arms trembling where they’re held aloft.

Yet more surprising, Teach stows their bow entirely and draws a sigil in front of themself; Claude almost flinches, but he recognises Teach’s movements enough to think  _ white magic. _ And underneath him Ester suddenly grunts in surprise and relief. She sniffs at the arrows that have fallen out of her healed flesh, then raises her head cautiously.

“Thank you, Professor,” he says, finally letting his hands sink back down slowly. “And you, Edelgard. I’m truly grateful for your courageous decision. I will return your kindness one day… I promise.”

He doesn’t remember a lot about leaving. Just the soft apology he gives Ester for forcing her to fly so fast after only just healing, the way his hands feel damp with sweat in his barbarossa gloves, and the feel of dozens of eyes watching him fly away. 

When he lands at the makeshift Almyran camp outside Derdriu, it’s far too quiet. He finds Nader laid out on a crib while a healer cleans up what’s left of the lance wound in his side, the one that had almost killed him. That had been Bernadetta von Varley's work, if Claude remembers right.

“You’re not dead,” Nader says in Almyran, surprised. 

“They let me go.”

“They're fools, then. We can take it back.”

“No. It’s over.”

“It’s not over while there’s still breath in your lungs. We could pull back to the Locket, bring some more soldiers through the Throat, strike again while they’re still trying to get a grip on-”

“ _ Baba _ . No,” he says, and that’s what gets Nader to stop talking, or maybe it’s the healer digging grit out of the lance wound with a sharp blade. Nader's pride isn’t exactly intact right now either, Claude knows, so it’s not just for his benefit Nader wants to push again, why he’s sitting through this medical procedure trying to talk strategy, trying to be unstoppable like he used to in the old days when Judith-

Anyway.

Claude is a dreamer, but he is not stupid. He knows if they try again any time soon, neither of them will make it out.

“So. If not that, then what?” Nader says, once the healer has wiped the blood away. “Will you come home?”

“ _ Fódlan _ is home,” Claude says, in Fódlaner, and can’t keep the bitterness out of his voice for this one. 

“Not right now it isn’t,” Nader retorts, switching language too. “And if you don’t plan to take it back, then it won’t wait for you. And worst of all, you owe them a debt now. The emperor girl, and her green haired general. Don’t hurry to pay it off, kiddo.”

Nader’s right, of course, as he often is. Almyra is the safest place for him to be until the war is done, both for himself and for the Alliance. Duke Goneril and Holst - and Hilda - won’t back down if he’s still around, however depleted their troops. He hasn’t spent five years running around Leicester keeping plates spinning - keeping people  _ alive _ \- for everyone to throw it all away now. Until a few months ago the Alliance had barely seen an Imperial banner, hadn’t buried a single soldier even in the occasional border skirmish. Not until the Great Bridge of Myrrdin, that is. Not until Teach came back.

Where had they even been this whole time? Why did they come back?

“Yes, then,” he says, to Nader, who takes a moment to follow his conversation thread as he winces through more medical prep.

“So you’re coming home,” he says, and Claude just nods, this time, doesn’t argue. He’s tired.

And then he thinks of the way Teach had relaxed, just a little, when Claude had offered the possibility of a peaceful end. He’d heard back when they were a mercenary they’d been a cold blooded killer, a story told around the campfire, and the few times he’d seen them fight certainly lent credence to it. But now, he owed them his life, and it was just another bit of Teach that he didn’t understand. Would never understand, now, maybe.

Maybe.

“Did Dari get out okay?” Claude says, before he thinks about it too much.

“Of course he did, he’s the best.”

“Can I ride him? Ester needs to rest. We can break down the camp tonight, I’ve just got some unfinished business first.”

“Where are you going?”

“Back to Derdriu. I need to talk to Teach.”

Nader looks at him for a moment, speechless, and then bursts out laughing, which makes the healer scold him as it shakes his wound. “You’re going back for what? A nice cup of tea? You just got out of the hornets nest and now you want back in?”

“I just… I can’t just leave without saying anything.”

“You sure can, but who am I to stop you?” says Nader. “Takes some stones, but you managed not to die before. Keep it up.”

“Same to you,” Claude says, and means it.

—

“Lend us your strength,” they say, as if it were the simplest thing in the world, and the only thing Claude can do is laugh. He’s so tired, he’s so tired, and the Alliance is gone, the Riegan dukedom forfeit, and he didn’t get to say anything to Hilda before he left and now he doesn’t know where she is, and now he has to go back to Almyra. So the only thing he can do is laugh. Because, what strength? 

“I knew I liked you, Teach,” he says, and Byleth gives him the closest thing to a smile that Claude has ever seen on their face. Edelgard is watching the two of them, evaluating as ever, but Byleth just claps Claude on the shoulder and then hands him a small wooden fish.

“Is this yours?” they ask. “I found it.”

“I…” Claude stares, and realises it’s a piece from a board game he’d brought to the academy. “Yeah. Yeah, it is. Teach, have you been hanging onto this the whole time?”

Byleth shrugs. “Sometimes you have to wait longer than you think til you get the chance to do what you want to do.” They press the piece into Claude’s hand, wrap his fingers around it, and then pat the top of his hand.

—

He goes back to Almyra. 

–

“We could make another incursion,” Nader says one day, pushing his index finger down on the glass of the tea table between them. His lance wound is healing relatively well, though he says it aches when the weather’s bad. “Like I said before. Strike the Locket before they have their affairs in order. We need to show strength before they get any ideas.” His finger smears the line of mountains between Fódlan and Almyra, pushes down again where the Locket sits.

Claude tenses. “No. Derdriu was enough Almyran involvement as it is.”

“If the Gonerils are leaving the Locket-” and something twists in Claude’s chest to hear it so plainly “-then we need to know what this new general’s made of.”

“There’s too many unknowns and too much to lose. The Imperial army are stronger right now than they've ever been."

“All the better to get the measure of it, if you ask me.”

“Nader. Please. Do not go to the Throat.”

“That an order, is it?” Nader says, prickling. “Decided you want to be king, finally?”

Claude snaps, standing up. “No, Baba, it’s a request! It’s me, asking you not to go, because... I don’t really feel like losing both parents in this stupid war if I can help it.”

A pause.

“Just as well, really,” Nader says, finally. “Since I’d expect more sense from the king, and less of an insult to my intelligence. But from my son, I still know he can be thicker than wyvern shit sometimes.”

“You’re angry, I know,” Claude says, sinking down again, and he feels his throat close up a little. But in front of Nader, he swallows it away. “I’m angry too. Among other things. But I know Edelgard, and I know her generals. And right now, we’re alive, and we can make it through the rest of the war alive if we don't go back. After that, we can see where we are. But right now, please… don’t go, Nader.”

Nader makes a frustrated sound in the back of his throat, but he doesn’t argue any further.

"They're going to use you, you know," he says, after a while. "One way or another. You owe them a debt and sure as anything they will collect." 

That’s why he’s pushing, Claude realises, and some of his anger drains away.

"I know," he says in reply. “ But all I can do is make sure I'm ready when they do." 

—

He writes to Hilda, when he can. She can’t get much news past the Locket, especially once Count Bergliez takes governance, but occasionally a note slips through the cracks. A few lines of  _ Hey Claude!! Everything sucks without you here, Papa and Holst say hi, we miss you,  _ and then a three by three square grid with three squares coloured in black.

The columns stand for Edelgard, Rhea, Dimitri; the rows for alive, dead, imprisoned. 

They change in just two more months. 

Strategically, it makes sense, there’s no way Edelgard would want to lose momentum and the longer they leave the Church settled in Fhirdiad the harder the fight will be. But the part of him that doesn’t think of the big picture - thinks of standoffish, dark-layered Dimitri and beautiful, terrifying Rhea, the iron will he’d seen in both of them - is surprised.

_ That’s that then,  _ Claude thinks, and takes a sip of pine needle tea. 

–

He hears the coronation, slash victory parade, slash royal wedding is attended by tens of thousands of Fódlaners, lining the streets of Enbarr. He had always liked Dorothea from a distance, though her gaze had tended to slide right over him back at Garreg Mach. Sharp as a tack and with that inner fire that comes from pure grit and ambition. Good for her.

No Almyran dignitaries are invited to the celebrations.

—

_ Hey Claude!! _

_ I’m waving at you from Edmund. Sure is weird not living in Goneril anymore but I guess I got used to moving around anyway. Marianne says hi too! Or she would if she was here, she’s always travelling with her dad these days but that’s ok. Anyway, this is a little pin, it’s got a cute little Goneril ruby on it, I figured it could go on your fancy sash if you wanted! Is that allowed? If it isn't it can just be a brooch I guess.  _

_ I miss you. _

_ Hilda _

_ — _

_ Hey Claude!! _

_ Hope you’re doing ok, I can't believe it's been like almost a year since I last saw you already. Jeez so many people are getting married these days, it’s like everyone went loopy after the war. Marianne keeps asking me to go to Enbarr with her to all these receptions and I’m just like ew. Don’t tell her that though!! I know it’s not like me to say no to an excuse to get dressy but I just can’t go. You get it, right? _

_ It’s funny, it seems like so long since the war ended but it feels like we still see battalions on the road to the Locket all the time. I guess they’ve gotta keep busy!! _

_ Here’s a picture Ignatz drew of me, I think it’s pretty cute. He’s turning into a big shot artist these days! _

_ Miss you, _

_ Hilda _

_ – _

_ Hey Claude!!  _

_ Thanks so much for the little sliding puzzle thingy, it’s so clever. Holst says hi, he ate some bad mushrooms last week and literally turned purple, it was super hilarious once we were sure he wasn't gonna die. He's okay now. _

_ I don't know if you've heard from anyone in the Empire recently but Lysithea told me to tell you that Hubert has been thinking of you. Did you know Enbarr is way warmer than Edmund this time of year? Probably not as warm as Almyra though I bet.  _

_ Miss you.  _

_ Hilda _

After Claude finishes reading this particular letter, he burns it. Both Hilda and Lysithea have risked a lot to send this. To warn him ahead of time, as directly as they can get away with. He doesn't know how long he has, but at least he knows what's coming. 

_ — _

_ Your Highness, the Crown Prince of Almyra,  _

_ We hope this letter finds you in good health. We are writing to graciously request your presence at Fódlan's Locket at your earliest convenience. From there we are happy to provide an Imperial escort through to Enbarr at the courtesy of General Bergliez, in his capacity as Minister of Military Affairs. A wyvern or entourage will not be required as we are happy to provide for any necessities while on your visit.  _

_ Kindest Regards,  _

_ Her Imperial Majesty, Edelgard Arnvelg _

_ ℅ the Ministry of the Imperial Household  _

He has to hand it to Hubert Vestra-Aegir. It's the politest way he's ever been abducted. 

— — —

The anniversary of the destruction of the false Church rings throughout Enbarr, victory songs on the lips of drunken veterans. Feasts and street parties are held. Puppeteers act out the story of the Emperor, the Professor and the Monster in the city squares and children gasp as the wooden effigy of the beast rears up and then is struck, one-two, by the brave heroes of the Empire, until it falls with a crash to the ground.

Hubert can hear the distant thump of fireworks out of the window, the occasional cheer or call of a crowd, but his attention is elsewhere, at his preferred place of worship. He runs an idle black-fingered hand through his wife’s hair as their breathing slows in synchronicity. 

Eventually, she raises her head, chin on his bony shoulder, eyes fixed on his through pale orange lashes. “I have been thinking,” she declares.

“Dangerous,” Hubert murmurs, and his wife pulls a face.

“You wits are barely returned to you and already you needle me,” she retorts. “Am I never to have a moment's respite from your torment, even in such intimacy? This is important.”

Hubert rolls his eyes. “Dramatic as ever. Fine. Tell me your important thought.”

“Fenella,” she says, simply, a soft blush rising on her freckled cheeks as she says it. 

“Oh?”

“It reminded me of Professor Manuela, you see. A fitting dedication, no?”

“Have you told her, yet?”

“I wanted you to hear it first.”

“Fenella Vestra-Aegir,” Hubert says, rolling the name around his tongue. 

“Oh,” she says, and her smile is hesitant but exhilarated. “It sounds rather lovely to hear you say that.”

“If that is the case then I will never stop saying it,” Hubert says. “I will carve it into this new world with every blade I have so that it is never forgotten.”

“And you call  _ me _ dramatic,” Fenella says, smiling, and then kisses him long and deep. When she rolls onto her back, another few fireworks pop and fizz in the distance.

“A little strange to think that our citizens celebrate peace while we face more danger than ever,” she says contemplatively. “I know that it is necessary, but…”

“It will come to pass,” Hubert says, firmly. “Lady Edelgard has prepared for this. We have all prepared for this. We will use any means necessary to triumph, and we  _ will _ triumph.”

“Still. I feel the next while will be… testing, for you.”

“I am willing to endure that. Now. Don’t let’s talk work anymore, hm?”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You’re all talking an awful lot like I don’t have a choice in this.”
> 
> “That would be because you don’t,” Edelgard says.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m on a bit of a roll so you get this early! I have no chill sorry.

There’s three people the letter from the Ministry could mean when it refers to General Bergliez and it’s the least likely one who’s waiting with an armed battalion when Claude arrives.

“Hey man! Long time no see.”

“Caspar,” Claude says. “I was expecting…”

“What, my father? Nah, he’s retiring soon, didja hear? Oh, maybe I’m not supposed to tell you that. But it’s not like you wouldn’t just find out in Enbarr I guess. Anyway, you haven’t brought any weapons with you, right? Cause uh, you’re gonna have to hand them over if you have.” The battalion behind him bristles a little, for emphasis.

“Why would I have brought weapons?” Claude says, casually. “I thought this was just an invitation to visit Enbarr.”

“I ‘unno. I bring my weapons everywhere. Know what I mean?” Caspar raises his fists and grins, does a playful one-two jab at the height of Claude's face. “No but really, I have to ask. And we’re gonna have to search your belongings and stuff, sorry. You need anything before we get going? Water? Tea? I got some uh, little Daphnel cakes on the way here, they’ve got sliced almonds on top, they’re pretty good.”

“I’m fine,” Claude says. “Let’s get this show on the road.”

It’s a lovely carriage, with only two armed footmen and some nice velvet seats. The Daphnel cakes are delicious. Caspar even has a flask of tea, though it’s too sweet for Claude’s usual taste. They don’t pass through Riegan, taking the road that winds between Gloucester and Ordelia towards the Great Bridge of Myrrdin instead. 

Caspar blithely chatters of this and that as they rattle along and it soon becomes apparent why he was chosen for this task. Any time Claude attempts to distill anything of strategic importance from Caspar he might as well be trying to extract treasure from an avalanche. He does get a brief update on each of the Adrestian generals, mostly in the format of who he'd fought at their wedding reception. This is followed by a far more in depth update on all the stray cats living at the Locket and the names he and Ashe have given each one. 

“Hey, is it weird being back?” Caspar says, brushing crumbs off his lap. “I know it’s not quite the same, but I’ve spent so much time in Leicester since the war ended that going back through Adrestia’s gonna be pretty weird. Kinda nice too though. The Locket is fine, but we’re all just kinda sitting about, ya know? It’d be nice to crack some heads again once in a while. Anyway, being back, it must be double weird for you, right?”

Claude watches the countryside go past. He’s spent what feels like days on this road in the past, rattling between noble households and the Derdriu roundtable hall, sending around little quid pro quos and concessions and agreements, scraps of glue that had kept the Alliance together for five years. About another hour’s ride from here is the Gloucester family estate with its famous rose gardens. In the opposite direction is the Ordelia home, quiet and unassuming. 

“Yeah,” he says. “Double weird.”

—

Claude is escorted directly to the palace and into a red and gold antechamber that, conveniently, has no windows and has a lockable door. He is offered more cakes, more tea, but his request to take some air in the palace gardens is politely refused.

He waits for an hour.

Finally, as he’s bouncing screwed up cake wrappers off the top of a brass double-headed eagle on the wall, someone knocks politely, bows deeply and ushers him to the Imperial throne room.

Edelgard sits below a wall hanging, all velvet and gold thread, of an eagle sat atop the severed head of a horned beast, because nobody ever accused the Flame Emperor of being subtle. The blood from the beast’s neck is tiny red teardrop beads cascading down the fabric, and golden-edged rose vines form an intricate pattern around the two animals. The Crest of Seiros is nowhere to be seen.

Claude tilts the most imperceptible bow, possibly more insulting than if he hadn’t tried at all. “We meet again, your Majesty. Congrats on the wedding. Do you kidnap all your old classmates when you want to catch up?”

“Oh come now, Claude,” says Edelgard. “Kidnapping is a little strong. And as it is, most of my old classmates drop by all the time to catch up. It’s just the ones who have tried to kill me we have to be a little more prepared for.”

“Well, maybe I should be flattered you went to all this effort, then. Or that Hubert did, I imagine. Thanks, Hubert.”

Flanking Edelgard are, of course, her Prime Minister and her Minister of the Imperial Household, barely different from the last time Claude saw them in Derdriu, apart from the matching rings. Hubert still bristles with more barely-concealed weaponry than a government desk job should require, and Fenella is still all pomp and brocade, though she’s ditched the greaves and her hair is pinned into some complicated system of braids and curls. She pushes a loose strand of hair behind her ear and looks over at Hubert when Claude speaks, but Hubert just folds his arms and smiles a thin, unpleasant smile, saying nothing.

“I expect you’re wondering why we brought you here in the first place,” Edelgard is saying. “You know well that what I look for in those who serve the Imperial crown is not arbitrarily inherited privilege, but true skill, true talent. I want to see the best rise to the top. And I will readily admit that you, Claude, are an incredibly talented and intelligent individual.”

“That’s some fine flattery, Edelgard, but you’ve still kidnapped me.”

“The political and strategic prowess necessary to maintain peace within the Alliance for five years, and to minimise bloodshed in Derdriu - it’s truly impressive. We gathered many impressive reports of your skill from the prominent families of the old Alliance, despite your defeat. So, we wish for you to take a role within the Imperial Household, lending your skills to our cause.”

Claude looks at her. Nothing on her face indicates that she is kidding.

“You want me to be a strategist for the Empire?”

“Essentially, yes.”

Claude looks at Hubert. “What, is the one you have already not proving up to the job?”

“We are approaching a key point within a highly classified mission,” Hubert says coldly, and Claude can't help but smirk at having gotten a rise out of him. “While things have been progressing admirably, we wish to make use of any advantage available to us. Any resource that we can exploit, we will, if it leads us to victory.”

“The war’s been over for more than a year,” Claude says slowly, and then follows the expressions on their three faces, “except it hasn’t, has it. There’s still more to do. Who’s left? Is it the Church?”

Fenella clears her throat. “The information for these missions remains and will remain highly secret, Claude. You will not know more than it is necessary for you to know, and will receive briefings on a case by case basis. This is both for our safety and your own, please do trust us on that.”

“Seems a little difficult to plan anything like that when I don’t have full context. Like trying to navigate with only a scrap of the map.”

“You will provide insights,” Hubert says, “That I will then build into a larger strategy. Do not concern yourself. I can see the rest of the map.”

“You’re all talking an awful lot like I don’t have a choice in this.”

“That would be because you don’t,” Edelgard says. 

“You must be aware by this point, your Highness,” says Hubert lightly, “That your life currently continues only at the indulgence of Lady Edelgard. Do you feel it worth the risk to spurn her request?”

Claude fixes his eyes on the beheaded beast on the wall hanging and doesn’t reply. Hubert is enjoying this, of course he is, and Claude refuses to provide any more entertainment.

“You will of course be provided with accommodations,” Hubert continues. “Suitable for the crown prince of Almyra. A runner will tomorrow collect any requests you may have for decor, along with any information on dietary restrictions et cetera. You will be provided with a working office that you may furnish as you see fit. As part of the Imperial household you will be the responsibility of my Ministry and will report directly to me.”

Claude’s knuckles tighten and bleach.

“Do you have any further questions at this time?”

“What does Teach think of all this?” Claude says, which makes Edelgard blink. He pushes. “They must know about all this. Whatever war you’re still fighting, they must know.”

“But of course,” says Fenella. “Why, as we speak they are currently in the fray.”

“So they know that you’re coercing me into cooperating with you?”

“Oh, Claude,” says Edelgard sweetly. “It was their idea.”

—

As Hubert promised, he is provided with a lavish suite in the east wing of the palace, not far from the the traditional Vestra accommodations. A painted fresco on the north wall shows a traditional Adrestian hunting scene; it doesn’t go quite as far as showing a stag peppered full of arrows, but Claude can appreciate the implication. 

The main bedchamber has an accompanying washroom with an enormous tub and fire for heating water, and the adjoining room is his office, currently bare save for a bulky mahogany writing desk and some dusty shelves. 

They bring his meals quickly and efficiently, the servant refusing to make eye contact or conversation. The main door to the corridor locks from the outside.

Claude checks under the desk, behind the bed, around ornaments and within books and crannies for surveillance sigils, wishes he knew enough magic to check for enchantments on objects. He piles anything he doesn’t recognise into a corner and throws a drape over it anyway. A futile gesture, perhaps, but better than nothing.

A junior minister leaves him quill and paper so that he might form a list of furnishing requests. “Minister Vestra-Aegir has assured us that your comfort is paramount, your Highness,” she says, bowing deeply. “We will do our utmost to accommodate any request, within our abilities of course.”

Once left alone with the quill and paper, Claude rips one sheaf in half and stows the scraps under his mattress. With the rest, he intends to take the Ministry at their word. He sucks thoughtfully at the end of the quill, leaving black ink stained on his lower lip. Then he lists, among other things:

3 chairs

A large roll of parchment

A detailed map of Fódlan 

A blackboard and chalk

More quills 

A Morfis plum trifle, no sherry

A full run of the Tomes of Comely Saints series, with the special edition fold out inserts

17 floor pillows

Sets of encyclopaedia in Fódlaner, Almyran, Dagdan and Brigidese (can’t be too thorough)

A trombone

A beginner’s guide to playing trombone

A range of rare Almyran plants (including a little-known orchid that if its petals are brewed into tea, will give who who ingest it rampant diarrhoea)

A card for Hubert’s tailor.

—

Enbarr shines golden out of the window of the suite. Claude had hoped to visit one day, back at the Academy, to learn more about the twists of fate that had brought about its founding, but those same twists of fate had possessed other ideas. And there it is below him, alive, its very fabric being torn apart by Edelgard’s red-gloved hands as she rebuilds it in her image with its heart still beating. Inch by bloody inch she is fulfilling her dreams. While Claude watches from the window, her prisoner in all but name.

Impressive reports from the old noble families, Edelgard had said. It sure hadn’t felt like they were too impressed most of the time. The Ordelia tired and sad, but just wishing for their daughter’s safety. Count Gloucester, smug that his son had seen the way the wind was blowing ahead of time. Margrave Edmund, verbose as ever, reminding Claude just how much money he’d invested in the Alliance and how few troops he had supporting him. A day in, day out, exhausting effort. He supposes that’s how Lysithea was able to warm him at least; her parents must have told her that the Empire had been asking about him.

He spins a small wooden fish between his fingers, reclining in a pile of floor pillows, and wonders. If the war was not truly over, who was the Empire’s foe? Did pockets of followers of the Church still resist? He heard Thunder Catherine had fought tooth and nail for Rhea until the very end; there were a surprising number of people who owed the former Archbishop their life, and might be prepared to give it, even if Rhea was already gone.

Or was it something else entirely?

—

He receives everything except the orchid and the trombone. 

Still giving him the beginner's guide seems a little redundant, but does also seem like Hubert’s sense of humour.

Well, that’s fine. Pulling out his scrap of paper from under his mattress, he sets the third volume of Comely Saints as his key text and runs some of the important vocab through Fódlaner to Brigidese to Dagdan to Almyran using the encyclopaedia to compare. From there he can use the Immortal Corps cipher.

The next bit, of course, is getting any message out to Almyra, but he’s working on that.

— — —

It's Fenella and Linhardt's turn to receive Byleth at the extraction point, but they’ve been waiting for half an hour with no sign of the professor. Fenella is tracing the prints of her boots back and forth in the dirt. Naida is tied up nearby but is picking up on Fenella's restless energy, snorting and pawing at the ground. Fenella is still getting used to some of the idiosyncrasies of pegasi. Bred for speed, they're rather more hot-blooded than the wingless counterparts used in the cavalry, and the unicorn variety the Falcon Knights favour seems even more so. 

“Could you stop that?” Linhardt calls eventually from the ground. “The collective stomping from you and your pegasus is interrupting my nap.”

“You should not be sleeping anyway!” Fenella grouses. “We must be prepared to spring into action at any eventuality.”

“I’m conserving my energy. If you wear yourself out with your pacing you won’t have any left for springing into action.” Linhardt closes his eyes where he’s laid against a rock, fingers twined in his lap.

“Are you not concerned? It’s not like them to be late.”

Linhardt opens one eye again. “You’re still measuring them against their wartime performance,” he says. “I’ve been making comparisons for the last year and this is within their…” he yawns, “....usual timings. They’re only human now, you know. Half an hour is not too late, it’s merely inconvenient.”

“But if something has happened—”

“If something has happened then we can’t do much about it anyway, except be where we are supposed to be for as long as seems necessary.”

“You talk of it so coldly.”

“No, I’m being practical,” retorts Linhardt, irritated now. He sighs. “Look, I appreciate the concern, but a little faith, please, and stop projecting your anxiety about your husband onto Byleth.”

“I. Hmm. You have the measure of me, I apologise.”

“Mm. Where is he?”

“He has not told me,” Fenella says. “Says it is vital for the next stage of the plan. I do not know why he thinks leaving me ignorant will make me feel better. I am the Prime Minister, I will find out eventually. And either way, it never does.”

“Does what?”

“Make me feel better.”

It’s then that Fenella gets a whiff of that oddly chemical smell, sees the purple static that accompanies the opening of a warp portal. It turns out her pacing has worn a groove directly under the warp point, and before she knows it an entire professor is about to land on her.

She catches them reflexively, the impact knocking her to her seat, and Byleth sags and rolls in her arms with the momentum, leaving the two of them sprawled in the dirt. 

“Whoops,” says Byleth, faintly, after a moment. They roll off Fenella, and smear the back of their hand across their forehead, leaving a long line of blood through the rest of the blood. “Sorry, Fenella. Are you ok?”

“Ugh. I mean, yes I am unhurt, just bruised perhaps. Apologies, I misjudged your arrival.” Fenella sits up, notices the smearing of blood on her jacket. “But you-”

But Linhardt is already there, washing white magic over them, pushing their dark hair back so they can inspect the nasty blow at the line of their scalp. 

“It looks worse than it is,” says Byleth, and then faints. It’s Linhardt’s turn to catch them this time; at least it is only a slump to the side, rather than a plummet from height.

“Did they not have a battalion with them?” Fenella says, and then looks at them, and feels stupid for saying so.

“Whatever it is that Hubert thinks is vital for the next stage,” Linhardt says firmly, lowering Byleth to the ground and then drawing another heal sigil in the air above them, “I sincerely hope that he found it.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Problem solving, a garden tour, and a sighting.

Claude has extensively examined every volume of Comely Saints, taught himself the days and months of the year in Dadgan and Brigidese, and given himself a strong theoretical grounding in trombone by the time the door finally knocks and a footman ushers Hubert into Claude’s suite. Claude doesn’t stand from where he’s rocking his chair, feet braced against the desk. The chair legs creak unpleasantly underneath him. 

“Your Highness,” Hubert says, with a small bow. “I trust you enjoyed the trifle.”

“It was ok. Would’ve tasted better without the captivity.”

“Feeling a little cooped up, are we? Perhaps, then, you’d join me for a stroll in the gardens.”

“You don’t think I would just leap the hedges?”

“Feel free to try, it would be entertaining to watch. Or perhaps you would prefer to hear about your first piece of work for the Empire.”

Claude puts his hands behinds his head, rocks backwards and forwards contemplatively on the chair.  _ Creak. _ “Doesn’t it gall you?” he asks. When Hubert just watches him, he pushes: “That she has to bring me on, I mean. Doesn’t it sting that Lady Edelgard doesn’t think her lapdog is up to the job?”

“If this a laughable attempt to needle me, save your breath,” Hubert says impassively. “This was a strategic decision made by the cabinet.”

“So not made by the strategist, then.”  _ Creak. Creak.  _

Hubert makes a  _ psh  _ noise under his breath, disdainful, and then, bypassing Claude, wanders towards the bookshelves behind him. He brushes fingers over the Almyran encyclopaedia. “I am part of the cabinet, Claude,” he says, forgoing the honorific this time, “and anyway, what I care about is results. I have the end goal in mind—"  _ Creak. _ "Lady Edelgard’s end goal, her wishes, her desires—"  _ Creak. _ "And I work tirelessly to achieve it. Method is largely irrelevant as long as it does what we need it to do. 

_ Creak— _

With this, almost before Claude can react, Hubert pitches around to boot the legs of Claude’s chair out from under him, tipping the whole thing backwards towards the floor. Claude already has the sharpened quill he’s had up his sleeve in his hand when Hubert catches the back of the chair with both hands and the pair of them freeze with the sharp quill tip an inch from Hubert’s nose.

Claude thinks quickly. If he is quick enough, forceful enough, he could reach up, slash across Hubert’s upside down face. Maybe he’d get one of those pale eyes, and then— then he could—

Claude lets go of the quill, and it flutters to the ground. Hardly the clatter of Failnaught a year and a half ago, and yet it feels oddly familar.

“ _ You  _ are irrelevant, as long as you do what I need you to do,” Hubert says, finally, gently tipping Claude back upright so that all four chair legs are on the ground. “Now then. Perhaps the garden was a little ambitious, I was only thinking you might appreciate the fresh air. No matter; I can brief you here just as well.”

—

Three scenarios are presented. They relate to allocation of resources within tactical strikes but one also includes making allowances for a widely variable number of enemy troops and one involves a set of ballistas that, as far as Claude can tell, shouldn’t actually exist in terms of their size and firepower. It’s almost laughably fake. They are described in the dry terms that Claude recognises from their old Academy textbooks, all hypotheticals and jargon, and diagrams are simple, devoid of recognisable features. Presumably, only one of the scenarios is the actual one that Hubert needs his support on. It’s all very clever.

He pores over each text for a while, sucking his teeth, and then crumples the lot into a ball and throws it at Hubert. Hubert bats it away with one hand before it hits and the paper bounces to the floor.

“These are completely useless,” Claude declares, frustrated. 

“You have all the information you need,” Hubert says, picking up the ball and starting to smooth them out. “Stop being childish.”

“I’ll stop being childish when you stop giving me children’s exercises. Presumably, Edelgard brought me here to do this because of my ingenuity and inventiveness along with my striking good looks. How in flames am I supposed to come up with anything inventive if you give me no context? No intelligence? No background information on my units?”

“I assumed you would have enough of your wits about you to explore all eventualities,” Hubert says.

“That's pure nonsense. If your mission is important as you say you need concise, relevant strategy, not a laundry list of everything that could possibly happen to your hypothetical soldiers in your vague paper world!”

“And you have given me every reason to trust you, of course, after trying to take my eye out with a quill.”

“That was only after you kicked out my chair in your pathetic little attempt at grandstanding. And I don’t know, maybe if you had wanted this to be an exchange of trust, maybe the Empire shouldn’t have  _ kidnapped me. _ ”

“You still haven’t gotten it into your thick skull, have you?” Hubert says, shaking his head in wonder. “We hold every card in this deck and you have no choice but to play our game.”

“Yes! Well done! Congrats to you all, you’ve got me over a barrel,” Claude says angrily. “So what? If you’ve got nothing to lose, then just tell me what I need to know! I can’t play the game with one hand behind my back. Damn, you are  _ infuriating,  _ no wonder no one liked you at the Academy outside of your little Empire gang.”

Hubert is silent at this for a while, and then pinches the bridge of his nose, takes a breath. Looks back at Claude.

“Fine,” he says, calmly. 

“Okay then,” says Claude, to mask his surprise. It’s then he notices Hubert’s other hand, trembling ever so slightly where it lies on the desk; when his eyes fall on it, Hubert withdraws both, moves them to his lap. 

It could be too much coffee, Claude thinks. It could be overwork. It could be using too much magic in a short space of time. 

“Context will refine and hasten our conclusions,” Hubert continues briskly, not giving time for Claude to dwell on it. “I cannot tell you everything but there are certain points I can elaborate on, on a need-to-know basis; if you ask me something, I may or may not give additional information. In return you will forfeit all the quills in your suite and your meals will be served without cutlery until I can be confident you will not threaten a member of the Imperial household. And from there we will see how you play the game.”

“Oh I won’t just play it,” Claude says. “I'm going to  _ win _ .”

—

The real scenario is the one with the impossible ballistas. It doesn’t make sense. Something with that firepower shouldn’t exist. Should it?

He’d heard that Arianrhod had been torn asunder by javelins of light, the same kind that had turned Ailell into a burning wasteland. No one had escaped with their life, the Silver Maiden had been levelled in the blink of an eye.

Just who is it that they are fighting?

—

  
  


A routine is established, of a sort.

Hubert will be ushered into Claude’s suite, he will present Claude with a scenario. Claude will push for more information. Sometimes he receives it, sometimes he does not. He pushes either way, trying to see where he can provoke Hubert, what will make his eyes narrow or his voice drop to an irritated hiss, what will make him break his veneer of smug menace and show Claude the actual emotions underneath. It’s usually then that he’ll start to needle Claude back, and Claude hates himself for the times he rises to the bait, but there’s just something about Hubert that infuriates him.

And yet. Once they finally get around to the strategy, he can’t help but tear into it with both hands. This has always been what’s fascinated him the most. He can put an arrow through someone’s eye at distances most men can’t even pick them out, but that’s nothing, that’s just muscle and steadiness and breathing. This is gut feeling and hard work and earned knowledge and blind trust and sometimes, maths, but mostly it’s just pulling a situation apart and putting it back together in a shape that works better for you. And when they assemble their plan, piece by piece, it’s a rush. One he hadn’t felt in a long time.

Once he gets into the swing of it Hubert will fall silent, lean back in his chair and fold his arms. Let Claude talk his way through it. He never makes notes but he watches. Sometimes something will flicker across his face that is hard for Claude to parse. Almost like he’s been waiting for something to happen and has just witnessed it unfolding.

Claude can pick out some people by their loose descriptions, now. They send Teach out with Linhardt and some unknown, terrifyingly dangerous unit who Hubert refuses to identify. Fenella and Dorothea rarely go on full missions, mostly running support, which is probably fine with Dorothea and highly frustrating for Fenella. Sometimes, rarely, Edelgard and Hubert will assert that this particular mission is something they have to do alone.

“Can I ask you a question?” Claude says, as they’re packing up, once. Hubert doesn’t reply but doesn’t leave, either, so Claude continues: “How come Teach isn’t doing this? They’re a great tactician too, better than I am.”

Hubert makes a dismissive sound. “You’re perceptive enough that you should be able to understand that they have their own strategic concerns to handle.”

“Perceptive, am I?” Claude says, latching on to the loose compliment.

Hubert makes a noise of frustration in the back of his throat. “Don’t get distracted. We have more work to do.”

—

Of course, at the end of each session, he is still escorted back to his room. And the door is still locked behind him.

—

One morning, there is a knock, and Claude is expecting the sound of the footman, but what he doesn’t expect is the voice resounding around the room shortly after.

“Claude? It is I, Fenella!”

Claude peers up from his floor pillow pile, where he’s eating toast with red onion jam. “Fenella? I, uh, haven’t seen you in a while.”

Fenella looks down at him and the toast. “Ah, there you are. Well, that’s quite the place of comfort you have constructed for yourself. I did wonder when I saw the requisition list, but it seems you have a place for everything.”

Claude isn’t sure how to answer this, so just clambers to his feet and then says “So no visit from Hubert today?”

“Actually, I am here with his apologies, and also an invitation. He - and I, of course - thought you might appreciate another opportunity to visit the gardens. I perhaps thought the Monument Garden might be perfect on a day like today.”

Claude leans back, hands behind his head. “I’ve been offered garden privileges again, huh? Things must be going well.”

Fenella beams at him. “I am not at liberty to say, of course. You understand. But we truly do appreciate what you are doing for us.”

She’s so unflinchingly earnest that it’s difficult to conjure the energy to try to needle her the way Claude would have had with Hubert. He gets the impression that it would be a futile effort anyway. “Well, I don’t really have a choice, but thank you, I guess.” 

“But of course.”

Despite himself Claude holds an arm out to Fenella, who takes it. “Shall we, Minister?”

—

It’s certainly colder now than it had been when he arrived in Enbarr. There’s a chill in the air but the sun is shining when they step outside of the Palace and Claude is surprised by how welcome he finds the air, the feel of something not trapped within the palace walls moving on his skin. The garden Fenella leads them to is not the one Claude can see from his window, but an ornamental one to the rear of the west wing. It’s all gravel pathways lined by neatly clipped hedges, cutting a neat grid through trimmed lawns. In the centre of each lawn are different stone statues of different stuffy-looking Adrestians, each with a plaque resting at their toes.

Fenella keeps a hold of his arm as they walk. They’d been the same height at the Academy but she has a couple of inches on him now. Her hair is in a loose braid today that reminds Claude a little of how Petra used to wear hers, and wispy escaping ends catch the sunlight as they walk. She’s always been striking - Claude’s not blind - but she seems rather in her element these days.

“Ah, the Monument Garden,” Fenella says indulgently. “Truly a testament to those who surpassed the expectations and duties of nobility, to serve the whole of society to their fullest. Might I show you a few?”

“Uh, sure, I guess,” Claude says, because the other option is being taken back to his room. Fenella gently guides the arm she’s grasping towards the nearest statue. It’s of a man with a tome in one hand and a staff raised in the other, wearing teaching robes. The long sleeves dangle from his elbows in a way that leaves a faint pang in Claude’s chest. The plaque reads OTTO VON BERGLIEZ, 953-1019.

“Otto von Bergliez was a talented teacher in a family of ferocious fighters,” Fenella says, and she smiles fondly as she talks, as if introducing an old family friend. “Without a Crest or support from his house, he established one of the feeder schools that used to send students to Garreg Mach, with a charitable fund for commoners that showed prodigious magical talent. Unfortunately the fund did not continue after his death, but it was truly a boon while it lasted. And rather handsome, no?”

Claude peers at the statue and declines to comment. “Sounds like a great guy.”

The next one Fenella guides him to is a woman in the centre of a flower bed of marigolds. She has a young child propped on her hip and the pair of them are pointing to the north east. The plaque reads EMILY VON ORDELIA, 702-751.

“Emily von Ordelia was a notable philanthropist with a particular desire to oversee the betterment of the common class,” Fenella says. “It was said she tried to find a home for every orphan in Ordelia, and those she could not find a home for she adopted as her own. Made for a rather complicated family lineage, don’t you know, especially after she died in the War of the Eagle and Lion fighting for the Empire.”

“I bet,” Claude says. He sees what’s going on here now.

“But such generosity in a tumultuous time for Fódlan. Truly inspiring.” Fenella’s hand reflexively tightens a little on Claude’s bicep, and then she gestures further down the garden. “Oh, there’s one more you should see, though it may get me into trouble for doing so, since it bears a rather striking likeness to—”

Okay, that’s enough. “Fenella, I appreciate you taking me round, but you really don’t have to give me the ‘oh the Empire isn’t such a bad bunch’ tour,” Claude says, and Fenella stops walking.

“Ah,” she says. “I can see where you might get that impression. I apologise. I was instead, rather hoping to show you… my perspective, perhaps.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“The nobility is no more,” Fenella says, simply. “When I was younger, I thought that all that I had, all my own strengths were down to the circumstances of my birth. But now the nobility is no more and here I still stand. Not quite the same person I was back then, in many ways, of course,” she says with a grin, gesturing at herself. “But my strengths remain. These people have statues because they were Adrestian nobles, yes, but more importantly they have them because of their actions. In turn, I am sure there are many people just as selfless who will never have a statue, but their actions live on.”

“Sure,” Claude says, still not quite sure where all this is going.

“I suppose what I am trying to say, though it seems not to have gone too well, is that despite a change in circumstance, with a desire to see a better future, our strengths remain, and put to use their results will linger.”

“So are you saying if I’m a nice little prisoner and help out I might get a statue in this garden at the end of it? Claude von Riegan,” and he doesn’t leave out the  _ von _ , because it’s his name, and he can do what he likes with it, “1162 to whenever, patronised to death by the Prime Minister but at least he helped out in whatever little extra war the Empire had going on.”

Fenella’s face drops, and she lets go of Claude’s arm. “That wasn’t what I meant at all.”

“Then help me out here, because this still feels awfully like you’re just trying to make yourself feel better, telling yourself the ends justifies the means. That my needs are irrelevant as long as it helps Fódlan in the long run. I thought that was more of your husband’s shtick.”

“And you do not care about Fódlan’s future?” Fenella says, chin lifting. “You responded to the summons to the Locket rather quickly, did you not?”

“You make it sound like I had a choice!” Claude snaps. “You’ve all made it abundantly clear I didn’t, you should’ve heard Hubert the first time he came to brief me. Or is this all some good cop, bad cop thing the two of you have going on?”

“You are an intelligent man, Claude, and you were living free in Almyra,” Fenella says. “Though we would have taken measures had you chosen not to respond, of course, you would have found a way to avoid captivity. I am sure of it.”

You were… it was…” he falters, and Fenella watches him.

He had no choice. He had failed, as a leader, as a duke, as a friend. 

And he would fail as a king, so-

“Of course, now you’re here, we rather have the upper hand, but… think about what I said, perhaps.” Fenella says.

“If it’s no trouble,” Claude replies carefully, “I’d like to go back to my quarters.”

“Of course,” Fenella says, just as carefully. “I will have to escort you back, you understand.”

They do not speak for the walk back, and when the key turns in the lock, Claude returns to his pillow nest with a thump. After a long while of staring at the wall, he

realises that he’s spinning the wooden fish between his finger and thumb again.

— — —

Wednesday afternoons are Lysithea’s favourite. Most of Enbarr’s merchants shut on Wednesday afternoon, a tradition that lingers from an old church observation but lives on. The only shops that do not are the tea houses and bakeries, and so those who might have otherwise been caught at work have the luxury of time for a cup of tea and a sweet treat. The patisseries pile the cakes high and sell them even higher, but it’s worth it.

She picked some strawberry tartlets, persuaded by the way the syrup had made them shine like jewels, and three of them now sit on Edelgard’s silver cake stand. It’s Dorothea’s turn to choose the tea, and Edelgard has summoned blankets for them to keep the chill off. They could go inside, but the sunshine is still pleasant and this garden is a favourite tea spot.

“How is the opera coming along, Dorothea?” Lysithea asks, and Edelgard groans.

“Don’t let's talk about that, please.”

“Oh hush, Edie, you’ve said it can go ahead now, and you’re not allowed to take it back,” says Dorothea briskly. “And it’s going rather well, thank you Lyssie, we’re well into rehearsals now. It does rather help that I get to study my character all the time, and that she’s so fascinating.”

Edelgard covers her face with her hands briefly, and when he removes them, there’s a dab of syrup on her nose. “You are perfectly embarrassing, my wife. I am begging that we might move the conversation elsewhere. Lysithea, what news from Ordelia?”

Lysithea shrugs uncomfortably. “My parents are as well as can be expected. Lorenz pays them visits to help with what I cannot, which is quite the kindness. Linhardt says I may be able to return home for the winter ball.”

“I see,” Edelgard says, with kindness. “Send them my good wishes. Linhardt did mention that some additional research and development time was required, and he did promise me he didn’t just want a holiday. I will check up on him from time to time over the winter.”

“Oh leave that to me, Edie, you’re busy enough as it is,” Dorothea says, refilling Lysithea’s cup and spooning three more sugars into it. “But in the meantime, Lyssie, tell us any other news of yours.”

“Hardly much to tell,” Lysithea says, eyes wandering out over the garden, watching the wind catch the almost-bare branches of the nearby elm, sending a straggling brown leaf swooping over the hedges and statues “I saw Marianne and her father a little while ago, she’s getting so confident, it’s quite wonderful. She…”

In the distance, partly obscured by a statue, the leaf curls past the head of Fenella Vestra-Aegir, talking animatedly with-

Is that-

“Lyssie?” Dorothea prompts. 

“Ah, apologies,” Lysithea says quickly, turning her gaze away before Dorothea and Edelgard can follow it. “I’m a little tired. Where was I?”

**Author's Note:**

> Going to try to update this weekly, so we’ll see how we go.
> 
> You can find me on twitter at @hausofthestars ! I post fanart and blather about fe3h.


End file.
